


Ghost Riding

by MageUnderground (Rhaenyrra), Rhaenyrra



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapter 2: Horseshoe Overlook (Red Dead Redemption 2), Developing Relationship, Dom Arthur Morgan, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Protective Arthur Morgan, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-04-21 16:42:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22094224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhaenyrra/pseuds/MageUnderground, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhaenyrra/pseuds/Rhaenyrra
Summary: You've been on the move for as long as you remember, and honestly, you like it that way; what you don't like is how lonely nights can get on the road. When you're invited to join the Van der Linde gang after a chance encounter in Valentine, you jump at the opportunity for some kind of community, if only for a time. What you weren't anticipating was the quiet gunslinger that you can't seem to get out of your thoughts, or the trouble he seems to drag everywhere with him.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Original Female Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Reader, Arthur Morgan/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

You were woken to a chilly dawn, not by the orange sunlight spilling over the horizon, or the call of birds filling the boughs of trees that shook above your tiny tent, but by the stumbling of hooves as a rider trotted into camp. You knew better than to pay the disturbance any mind, not while Bill patrolled Horseshoe Overlook's perimeter, and so you pulled the soft wool blanket up around your throat and rolled over, nuzzling against the fabric's warmth. The two men, Bill and the rider, called out in greeting; Arthur's low voice was unmistakable as he called out to the watchman.

"Its only me, Bill," His timbre was distinct in the eerie quiet of morning, as was the clink of his spurs as he hopped from his horse and walked to his tent. You wondered for a moment what work had kept him occupied overnight, before deciding to pay that no mind either and slipping back into sleep.

* * *

You woke again as Mary Beth pulled herself up from her bedroll beside you, stretching and groaning as her muscles pulled taught. You laid still until she had risen and stumbled sleepily from the tent, humming to herself as she went; you did not know the woman well, and were nervous still in her company. You rose leisurely, arching your back to ease the stiffness of the night from your bones as you let the blanket slip away from your corseted breast. You clambered to your knees and slipped on a pair of well worn leather boots beneath your skirt and then followed your tent companion into the camp. Most members of the gang were already up and gathered around the fire, as they tended to do in the early hours of the morning. A pot of coffee was being passed between mugs, and Pearson was kneeling beside a great iron pot to tend to the stew. Uncle, Micah, and Bill were conspicuously missing, though that was unsurprising. Bill was on watch, and in the short time since you had come to stay with Dutch's gang you had ever known the former to rise before noon. You were surprised to see Arthur there, having heard his return from the road only hours earlier, sitting near the fire with a cup of coffee cradled in his rough hands; he bore the signs of his overnight excursion In deep bags that clung to his eyes and a five o'clock shadow wrapping its way around his jaw.

You wandered over to the fire and poured yourself a fresh cup, letting the heat from the small tin vessel warm your palms as you settled yourself on a log near the fire. You watched, as you sipped, the camp's morning routine. Dutch and Hosea chatted warmly by Dutch's tent, Grimshaw was in the makeshift kitchen preparing another pot of coffee, Abigail pulled at Jack's clothes as she checked that he was warm enough, Javier, Charles, and Karen ate a breakfast of bread and jam while they talked. You hadn't been there long, and didn't know everyone's names yet. Some of the faces in the camp you scarcely saw at all, and you had little to no idea what they did there.

You smirked to yourself at the thought - you didn’t even know what you were doing there. It had been a fortnight since Hosea had rode into camp with your arms clutched around his middle, heart beating against his back as the firelight had illuminated the night to reveal gruff figures and dusty leather, weathered skin and the glint of steel winking forbiddingly from the guns holstered on each man's hip. You had wondered then if you had made a mistake letting that kind older gentleman bring you there; he had seemed so gentile, and so thrilled to meet you in a way that few had been of late. But as you dismounted and he led you with a firm hand on your lower back towards the fire, your heart had filled with a panicked dread, surrounded by strangers and so far from anyone who even knew you well enough to notice if you went missing.

That dread had taken nearly a week of laying wide eyed in the tent next to Mary Beth while the others slept to subside. You had carried a knife on you, sheathed in leather and wrapped around your thigh, hidden by layers of skirt, for days after Dutch had welcomed you to your new "family". You did not bother correcting him that you had a family of your own already. You had snatched sleep where you could during the day, while the others were mostly busy, spoke little and moved wearily about the small camp, an animal tensed and ready to strike when needed.

But your fear had faded as with each morning you found you were still untouched and unbothered. The people seemed friendly, welcoming even. You supposed they were used to adding new people to their little clan - Micah hadn’t been with them much longer than you, only half a year or so. Some had reached out to befriend you more than others. The women seemed a tight knit group, and Charles and Hosea were active in seeking you out to talk, make sure you were settling in. It had been so long since anyone had seemed interested in getting to know you, so many months spent on the road and so many nights spent alone, the attention was not unwelcome. You had come to realize, on the dawn of your second week in the camp, that you enjoyed waking up to see the same faces every day.

_I suppose_, you pondered to yourself as you watched steam rise from the cup in you hands, _That’s why they all stay_. The man sitting across the fire from you, Arthur Morgan, was one of the few with whom you had very little contact with. He seemed to come and go as he pleased, spending days at a time out of the camp and only returning, as he had done that morning, at odd hours. Sometimes, you gathered, he was doing work for Dutch; but more often that not the man ventured out alone and of his own volition. He sat quietly as you did, sipping his coffee slowly and watching the chatter of his companions. You watched his dark, inquisitive eyes as they darted between their faces, striking below a set of strong brows and above a soft, almost feminine mouth. As you studied him, it seemed to you that both his eyes and lips were out of place in such a hard, weathered face, all scruff and sharp bones; they seemed to you too gentle. His lips parted to accept the rim of his mug, and you watched the steady way he moved as he drank. You considered, for a moment, going to him. What makes a man like that? You weren't sure you wanted at all to know. You shifted to rise, ready to stand and approach him when a hand fell to your shoulder. You turned to look up at the wide grin pushing at Karen's rosy cheeks.

"We're headed into Valentine, wanna tag along?" She asked.

"I could. Who's 'we'?" You asked, already on your feet. Karen shrugged.

"Me, Tilly, I think Lenny…" She motioned vaguely to the pair who were already clambering into a wagon. "Arthur, you wanna come with?" She asked the man. His eyes flicked up from where they had been resting on the fire.

"You girls planning in getting into some trouble down there?" He asked. You blushed at the implication, worried you were being scolded. Karen only laughed.

"What else?" She replied.

"Ahh, sure," He replied, rising as he did. "I could do with picking up a few things." He sidled past you towards the wagon; the smell of whiskey and grass followed him, filling your mouth with the not unpleasant flavors. _He's so tall_, you noticed as you quickly followed him. You clambered onto the wagon behind Karen and squeezed in beside her and Tilly, while Arthur took the reins from Lenny in the front, startling the horses forward with a flick of his wrist.

You listened to your female companions chat boisterously as the wagon followed first the sparse path out of the woods, and then the pebbled road towards Valentine, sometimes joining with a quick anecdote or word, but content mostly to listen. Karen seemed to be about the same age as you, though a touch more animated in her mannerisms. Tilly, a bit younger and more reserved, spoke frankly and evenly; you liked both immensely. It had been months, it felt, since you had enjoyed a female friendship - or friendship of any kind, you admitted to yourself. It had been a hard year on the road. Saint Denis was never far enough behind you, it seemed. The two girls wandered off as the coach rolled to a stop in the small town, a welcome reprieve, despite their pleasant company. You hopped from your perch in its bed and headed towards the general store, the remnants of you loot clinking in the purse you kept at your belt and a growing list of necessities looming in your mind.

You had precious little when Hosea had found you, only what you could carry - what you needed to survive. That meant more than just a bedroll and change of clothes. There were few things that could keep a woman safe on the road, you had learned quickly as you had fled from the smog-filled city that had been your home so many years ago. A good pistol was an essential, and though you had had little experience using it, you grew accustomed to its weight quickly. Rope, of course, flint, a good knife, the basic tools needed for supporting yourself for days spent on the empty road between towns or farms were important, but you had found some thing that protected better than any of those - money. And unburdened as you had become, you found lots of ways of getting it.

The general store was small and un-decorated, and the smocked shopkeeper greeted you warmly as you walked in. You strolled past its walls of shelves cluttered with uneven rows of jars, boxes, and tins, eyeing the wares as you searched for the things you would need in the coming weeks. Valentine was a small town, and the shop was kept about as well as you had been expecting - not much to be had for your line of work. You were struggling to reach an empty glass jar on top of a particularly high shelf when a gloved hand reached past your own, grabbing it firmly. You jumped, so lost in your shopping that you had heard no one approach, and felt your arm brush against the firm body of the figure standing just behind you. He stumbled backwards as if the touch had been a shove, and you heard the unmistakable gravel of,

"Woah, easy there miss, didn't mean to startle you,” Arthur Morgan held his hands up as you turned, one clutching the bottle you had been trying to reach. He held it out, offering it to you as if in supplication. “You looked like you could use a hand, is all.” You struggled to restrain your heartbeat, racing from the feeling of the strange man behind you. _Getting mighty complacent_, you reprimanded yourself as you smiled at your companion.

"Aren't you the very picture of outlaw hospitality, Mr. Morgan," You said, taking the offered jar and tucking into the bundle forming in your arms.

"Hardly, miss. Just a might taller than some," He replied, and shifted awkwardly on his dust coated boots.

"We all have something to offer, I gather. Your offering is perhaps prodigious height?" You suggested. He chuckled.

"I hope I have more to offer than just that. I also happen to have two strong arms and an exceedingly helpful disposition." You cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Is that so?" He shrugged, and gave a thin smile.

"Not particularly. But I've never been known for my honesty either," You considered him for a moment.

"I'd welcome a strong pair of arms, if they're being offered." You replied. He nodded in reply and opened them, accepting the collection of items you had so far procured from the dusty shelves. You turned from him and began to search their contents again, only half focusing on your work as you felt the heat of his body close behind you. The two of you moved in silence for a time, you occasionally plucking something up and pushing it into his waiting arms, sometimes letting out a pleased gasp at some item or another. You handed him a spool of catgut, at which he frowned.

"What exactly do you need all this for?" He asked. The soft wrinkle that knit his browns together was a testament to how easily the expression came to him.

"Oh, just some odds and ends for my work," You replied, picking up a tin of wax.

"And what exactly would that be?" He asked. You glanced at him in surprise.

"Don't you know already? Surely everyone has their place in your little gang," You said, leading him towards the shopkeeper.

"Most do. I can't say I've asked much about you. Hosea is a good judge of character, and Dutch has a soft spot for a lost soul, but that’s all I know," Your heart sank a little at his words. You chided yourself; why had you been expecting him to ask about you? You nodded absently as you relieved him of your hoard and placed the items on the desk before the shopkeeper.

"I was a doctor once, long time ago," You admitted. "Well, an apprentice. I still know a bit of the work." His eyebrows shot up in surprise and he gave a grunt.

"A doctor? I didn't think there were many lady doctors down in these parts," He replied. You smiled, more to yourself than him, a cruel twist of your lips.

"There aren't. Like I said, it was a long time ago," You placed the last glass jar on the counter. "But Hosea seems to have faith that I haven’t lost the art of it." Your conversation was interrupted as the shopkeeper finished packing your goods and you turned to pay him. You eyed the contents of your quickly emptying purse with dissatisfaction as you pulled out the bills and passed them quickly across the counter, grabbing the paper bags filled with your purchases and heading for the door. Arthur followed, taking one from your arms as he did without comment. You were both quiet for a time as you headed down the dirt road back towards the wagon; Arthur broke the silence with another question.

"I know we have a mighty need of a doctor, me especially in this line of work," He laughed at the last. "But ours doesn’t seem like the kind of group you would find yourself falling in with. Not with an education, a purpose." You snorted.

"Purpose? Sure, Mr. Morgan," You sighed. "I've never traveled with a gang before, that’s true. But I haven’t had much purpose of late but surviving, and you seem like a helpful bunch for that, at least." He laughed heartily.

"I don't know about that, miss. Seems sometimes we're better at getting into trouble than getting out of it," He remarked.

"Well then," You replied. "I can help with that too." You were interrupted as Lenny called out a greeting from the saloon down the road. Arthur waved in reply and turned to look down at you, the soft brown of his hair glowing golden under the high noon sun.

"I have no doubt you can."


	2. Chapter 2

You woke the next day with the dawn, and crawled carefully from your tent to avoid waking Mary Beth as she lay still snoring softly beside you. The grass beneath your toes was wet with dew as you pulled on your socks and well worn leather boots, paying no mind to the damp soaking you skirt as you sat; your work today would have you covered in dirt and grime come sundown anyway, there was little need to concern yourself with a bit of moisture. The sky, you noted with approval, was a cloudless canvas of the sun's first wash of orange. Already the chill of night was receding, and you knew that by noon you’d be baking in the southern heat. You slung a small satchel over your shoulder and pulled your hair from your face with a length of twine as you strode from camp towards the forest beyond, stopping only to pat some of the horses on your way from its borders.

You picked your way through brush and branches until you reached the well worn dirt road, and, glancing at the sun climbing quickly towards it zenith, began to follow it north. Your feet wandered first over dust and stone and then across grassy fields, through a river, again through a small wood and eventually took you to where the horizon opened up before you like a flower. In the distance, towering cliffs of faded grey stone rose against the perfect blue of the mid day sky. They sunk into yellow sand, and then into verdant green as summer grass and wildflowers bloomed in a swath across the earth as wide as the eye could see. Foliage of every kind could be picked out by a keen and knowledgeable eye, and you could identify as many herbs and flowers as you knew uses for them. Raspberries, oregano, carrot, sage, tobacco flowers, prairie poppy, wild mint - you delved with excitement to you work, your hands moving quickly to retrieve the various flora and store it carefully at the satchel that hung at your side.

It had been years since you had bothered stocking the ample leather bag that currently sat tucked into your tent back at the camp, one of the few belongings that you had kept since leaving home. You remembered the day your father gave it to you fondly, pulling the heavy medical bag from its box and listening eagerly to the clink of glass that emanated from it with your every movement. He had intended it to be an investment in your future, and so had provided you the essentials for any good medical practitioner; catgut, scalpels, needles, and a collection of opioids and tinctures that you knew were difficult to come by, even for a doctor. It had been beautiful, and exploring its endless compartments you had felt at the time you could see your whole future laid out ahead of you.

The bag, of course, never had the opportunity to be used in its intended capacity; your application for medical school had been turned down at the door, the man behind the counter taking one look at your skirt and long hair and shooing you out with an inconvenienced sigh. Years of apprenticeship in your father's practice had given you the knowledge you needed, but without the formal education…you knew there was little enough you could do to get work in the city. It wasn't until years later, after you had fled from Saint Denis, that you had treated your first "patient", an old farmer with a high fever and eyes glazed over in pain. His wife had begged at the door of the town's local physician, only accepting your offer of assistance when he had turned her and her empty purse away. When you reached the woman's modest homestead, her husband had been laid up in their bed, his clothes soaked through with a rancid sweat and the air sticky with the smell of blood and death. He had been wounded by one of the dogs some days before, and the bite had quickly gone bad; you did what you could for him, draining the pus and stitching the angry sores closed, giving from your collection those drugs that you knew would ease the pain, or else help to flush the disease from his flesh. By the morning his fever was down, and by the next night he was lucid enough to even thank you for your help. You had been paid in a few cents and a bed of hay in their barn, hot meals for a couple of nights and a husk of bread wrapped up as you set back on the road when you were good and sure the man would be fine without you. The bread and the money were payment enough but you left their little home more optimistic that you had been since you had resolved yourself to leave your employment in the city some months prior; you had learned that desperation in folk could be an excellent motivator, and you had the skills necessary to fill some of their needs.

Playing physician was not all you had done in the last decade as you wandered your way through the south, but certainly helped to fill your purse more than once, and saved you some mighty trouble a few more times than that.

The bag, you assumed, is what caught Hosea's eye when he approached you in that old tavern in Valentine, a handsome older gentleman with a kind voice and words that came like honey off a practiced tongue. You had planned on staying perhaps for the night, maybe two or three if there was work to be found in town but not much longer. He had asked what your business was, where you were headed, and eventually the two of you fell into conversation about your previous line of work.

"A doctor's apprentice?" He had asked with some surprise. "You know how to use everything in there?" He said, gesturing to the bag. You nodded confidently.

"Been a time since I've had to, but the knowledge sticks well enough. You don't need to go to a fancy school to stitch a wound, any more than you need to be a rancher to know how to ride a horse," He had seemed thrilled at the information, and even more thrilled when you had told him you were just passing through.

"Is it no where to go," he had asked. "Or something you're running from? It doesn't quite matter, long as you've got company for the running." By the time the sun set you had your arms wrapped around his chest as you rode together towards the camp, promises of safety and companionship sitting warm in your chest.

And so you found yourself on your hands and knees in the field, dirt caking your fingernails as you pulled at a particularly troublesome wild carrot, working to replace those herbs and medicines that you had long ago let run out or expire. After all, you know had twenty four heads to worry about, some more inclined to sustain gunshot wounds than the average folk. You grunted as you finally relieved the rich dirt of its bounty, rocking back on your heels and dragging a hand across your forehead to wipe away the sweat beading there. You glanced up towards the sky and cursed; the sun had sunk farther than you had intended to let it, and you were hours from camp. It would be set soon, and you left with no horse and only the moonlight to guide your steps.

Chastising yourself for your foolishness you stood and turned to follow your path back the way you had come. It was not long before the sky was lit first pink by the lowering sun, and then a dusky purple broken by twinkling stars, and then a deep and somber blue. The moon was waning, and only a sliver watched you from above as you picked your way across riverbeds and down hoof trodden dirt paths. You were no stranger to walking the nights alone, but it was not your preference to do so; especially so far from a strange town. Especially with only two rounds loaded into the pistol you kept at your hip.

Your limbs ached and your knees were swollen and bruised from resting on them all day, your knuckles cracked and bloody from thorns and rocks as you dug, so each step seemed heavier than the last. Weariness had crept into your bones, and pulled your feet to the earth in heavy, apathetic thuds. Despite the heat of the day it had grown cold, and you shivered in your linen shirt as you picked your way between lost stones on the side of the road. You thought the landscape was beginning to look more familiar, but couldn't be sure; fear began to clutch hesitantly at your chest. What if, you wondered, you could not find your way back? Would they look for you? Forget about you? Assume you had taken advantage of their hospitality for weeks before disappearing wordless into the wilderness? You thought of returning to the spot on the hill and finding only flattened grass where tents used to be, picking up your pace in sudden panic. _How long were they planning on staying?_ You struggled to remember if Dutch had mentioned it at all to you.

The crunch of your boots on the dirt seemed distant beyond the smothering beat of your heart in your ears, beyond the gust of wind that picked symphonies from the trees that lined your path in each direction now. Dancing leaves covered the stars overhead and made the night seem darker, and you glanced between thin trunks with frantic jerks of your head as you tried to see what their shadows hid. You felt very profoundly alone.

_Snap. _

The sound of the breaking branch had your hand on the barrel of your gun in a moment, you soft hands curling around the warm oak grip. Your breath held in your throat as you came to a halt, quiet - listening. You thought about running, but if it was an animal lurking within the treeline, that would only force the chase. If it was something else…you knew you had little enough chance to outrun anything without a horse. Each second ticked by with agonizing slowness as you waited for another sound, another indicator of what lay in the wood around you. Eventually, you were forced to draw a breath. Then another. Your shoulders relaxed, and you exhaled a soft curse into the empty night.

_Fool woman, spooked by a damn rabbit,_ you thought as you took a step forward, until a hand gripped your shoulder.

Your pistol was freed from its holster and pushed against your assailants throat in one motion, your other arm knocking yourself free his grip as you whipped to face him. The long, smooth steel barrel marked stubbled flesh white where pressed into the skin; it bobbed as the man swallowed against it. Your gaze flitted from the gun to his face quickly, hungry to see who had been hunting you down the lonely forest path.

“Oh,” you breathed as your eyes locked with Arthur’s, glinting cold as the iron against his neck in the thin moonlight. The fire that had crackled across your limbs only a moment ago was extinguished in a moment as all of the urgency of fear faded from you. Tensed shoulders dropped and your arms fell halfway to your side, pistol still held loosely in one hand, as you stumbled back a step. Your mind raced to fill the silence that hung between you for a brief second as you fell from him, the white noise of panic still fogging your thoughts. You let out a high, thin giggle. “You scared me shitless.” You choked out between rising gusts of laughter that shook your already shivering frame.

“Are you going to put that away, Ms. Kenly?” He asked, gesturing towards the gun still hung in your fist. You blushed as you stumbled to holster it, having forgotten it was still there at all as you struggled to regain your composure.

"I'm sorry, sorry-" You replied. "I'm just so glad to see_ you._" Some of the hardness seemed to melt from his gaze at your words, and you saw for the first time that his great paw of a hand was resting gentle on the gun holstered at his own hip; he pulled it away casually, as though it had never been there. Another shiver pulled at your skin.

"I suppose that wasn't my brightest idea," He admitted. "But I didn't intent to sneak up on you like that." You nodded.

"A proclivity for silence tends to run with your line of work, I suppose," You said, breathing deeply as you quelled the last fits of laughter that threatened to erupt from your chest. "What are you doing out here anyway, Mr. Morgan?" He shifted his gaze from your face for a moment.

"Ahhh, just out for a ride," He answered.

"In the middle of the night?"

"Well, yes. And I thought, perhaps, if I saw you…" He trailed off for a moment. You raised one eyebrow in question. "Its just that no one had seen you in camp all day and I know you're not from around here - don't even have a horse - and I figured maybe something had happened to you is all." Your heart seemed to flutter for a moment in your chest. He was worried about me? You wondered. You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry.

"A kind thought Mr. Morgan, but I'm more than capable of watching out for myself around here," You assured him. He laughed.

"I can see that miss," He gestured to the gun at your hip. "But we run in a group like this for a reason. Its good to have someone looking out for you." You couldn't keep the smile from your lips at his words.

"A very kind thought then," You replied. There was silence again for a beat. He motioned, suddenly, towards you.

"What were you out here doing anyway?" He asked. You pulled at the satchel, now stuffed and bulging, to show him your work from the day, flipping open the leather top to reveal the haul of flora and fauna stored within.

"Herb collecting. I had heard from one of the women in town there was a good place for it a little up north," You replied somewhat proudly. "I haven't had need of some of these for while, but there are quite a few tonics that can be made-" You stopped as he moved suddenly to clutch one of your fists in his own. The motion was rough, abrupt. You blushed, stammered.

"Where up north, a damn briar patch?" He flipped your hand to brush a calloused thumb across your knuckles; you flinched as they dragged across the raw and torn flesh there. His finger came back pink with your blood. "What happened here?" You hadn't thought much of the sight of your now bruised and cut knuckles, but the days work rummaging through rocky soil had taken its toll on your hands. Rocks and thorns had left them wet and swollen, shallow cuts lacing across the bones beneath.

"It’s a hazard of the profession," You offered. "Rough and dirty work on occasion, nothing I haven't done before. It honestly looks more painful than it is." You tried to pull your hand away but he held it fast, firmly but carefully. His eyes flicked up to examine yours, wandering across your face that you knew must be caked in soil and sweat, pink below your tangled and bedraggled hair.

"Come on then, lets get you cleaned up," He said finally, pulling you towards the tree line as he gave a sharp whistle. A grey dappled mare came trotting out from beneath two trees and he reached out to grab her reigns, whispering something gently to her. He released you for a moment as he swung himself into her saddle, and then reached down a hand expectantly. The moonlight lit him from above, and for a moment he was the most noble thing you had ever seen, dark hair and shadowed eyes towering over you, a glorious silhouette against the night's pale light.

"I'm fine Mr. Morgan, no need for you to go out of your way or anything-" You stammered out, but he cut you off.

"Ms. Kenly, just get on," He sighed. "We're not too far from camp and it'd be mighty cruel of me to leave you wandering around in these woods by yourself." You had to admit, the prospect of trying to find Horseshoe Overlook in the dark now that you knew help was being offered did not seem particularly tempting. You reach up and clutched his hand in yours, then let yourself be hoisted up and onto his saddle behind him. He lifted easy as if you were a child. You forwent riding side saddle as women tended to when wearing skirts, a practice you'd never found particularly comfortable, and instead hiked the layers of your skirt up to your waist and wrapped your arms around his middle to keep yourself steadied. He clicked at the mare and she began trotting, and you lent into him as you bounced, pressing your cheek against his back. He was wearing a white button down shirt that did little to mask the feel of his muscles pressing firmly against your palms, nor the knots of muscles working in his back as he rode. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and thick veins pushed against the skin of his forearms when he flicked the reins in silent command of the steed bellow his hard thighs. You found yourself worrying he would be able to feel the hard thump of your heart against him as you rode, unable to steady it when you breathed the smell of him in, whiskey and grass and…something else? He was warm as the night was cool, and you had to stiffen your arms to keep them from exploring the front of him, instead keeping them locked around his middle, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he panted.

You couldn't tell how long you rode with him before he pulled you quickly to a stop; you pulled your head from its resting place between his shoulder blades to peer around, realizing you had failed to watch the countryside at all as you had been riding, and had little idea where he had taken you. You saw first the pebbled bank, and then the stream that flowed past it, water sparkling silver under the moon. Glancing up towards the tree line you had just left you saw the path you knew led to Horseshoe Overlook - it was the stream that flowed near to the camp, where you had seen some of the men fishing during the day. His mare danced where she stood on its banks, splashing in the thin layer of water that lay across the rocks and mud. Arthur dismounted and held his hands up to you, motioning you forward so he could lift you from the saddle. Instead you clasped one in your own and slid off the horse, landing heavily on your feet as you steadied yourself against his arm.

"Come here," He instructed as he led you towards the water. He crouched as you followed, and you did the same, hiking your skirt up again to keep it from dragging in the shallows of the bank. Wordlessly, he took your hands in his own and pushed them bellow the rippling surface of the stream. His thumbs worked carefully to rub first the dirt from your fingers, and then the blood that had caked across your knuckles; the water was cold and stung your flesh, and goosepimples pushed at the bare skin of your arms. He worked patiently to clean your wounds, though his calloused hands spoke to use not nearly so gentle.

"Its been a good while since anyone has played doctor for me," You remarked, truthfully. He bobbed his head in acknowledgement.

"You must be an awfully clumsy woman to injure yourself picking weeds as you have," He teased. "It’s a wonder you don't need more frequent medical assistance." You laughed at the jab, hoping the blush that was blooming across your cheeks and chest would be unnoticeable in the dim of night. Your knees were pressed against his, close as you were crouching, and his face hovered some inches from your own, his dark eyes trained on his work. Warmth radiated from him like a furnace, though you feared it was not just that which had your flesh prickling with heat. Beneath the scent of whiskey you could also smell on him tobacco, and soft leather.

"Thank you," You murmured as he withdrew your hands, paired in his, from the water, satisfied with their cleanliness. He nodded again and stood, you scrambling to do the same.

"Ahh no need to thank me," He rubbed a wet hand across the back of his neck. _Bashfully?_ You wondered as his eyes darted across his boots. "I aint doing nothing that you won't be doing for me next time I come back to camp all bruised up. Happens enough."

"Still. I appreciate it," You insisted. His gaze met yours and for a moment the pair of you were quiet. It felt like a long time before he pulled his eyes away and looked up to where the camp lay between the trees.

"We best be getting back, Ms. Kenly," He said as he took the mare's reigns, leading her towards the road. "I'm sure you've had a long day." You had, and so your steps fell to following his as he led you back towards your new home.


	3. Sipping Whiskey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys save Sean and the Van der Linde's have a party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally an update! Its been a while so heres a bit of a longer chapter :) Hoping to continue to update this regularly moving forward!

"How's he looking Rosana?" Abigail asked from beside you. You brushed at the blood with gauze as you studied the trench of knitting flesh carved into John Marston's face. His partner sat beside you on the floor of his tent, watching you work by the light of a small oil lamp resting by your knees. The cowboy you were manhandling sat sullenly, wincing as you cleaned his healing wounds. 

"They're healing fine enough," You admitted. "Though I would have liked to have been here to sew you up from the get go, maybe saved you some scarring." 

"Don't see how that matters much on a mug like mine," John groaned as you pulled away, snapping shut your bag as you leant back on your heels. 

"The scars will serve as good reminders of your foolishness," Abigail snapped, then softened her tone. "Besides, I aint never heard a woman complain about a few scars on a man. You look…rugged." She struggled for her words towards the end of her sentence. John just laughed. 

"Really rugged, the very picture of a fearsome outlaw," His laugh forced Abigail's lips into a wide grin, a welcome addition to her already beautiful face. You envied her dark hair, the blush that lit the apples of her cheeks, her sparkling eyes. Would Arthur want a woman pretty as that? The thought came to you unbound and unsummoned; you were shocked at the intrusion. Shouldn't matter to me what kind of woman Arthur Morgan wants. 

"I'll check on him again in a week or two, but wounds like these usually take care if themselves at this point provided you keep yourself clean," You instructed as you stood. 

"Thanks Rosie," Abigail smiled as she edged closer to John, pressing a hand onto his knee and beginning to inspect his face as you had just done. You nodded and pushed your way from the tent, glad for the air and to be away from the strange tension that always hung between the pair within it. Abigail had been kind and welcoming ever since you stepped foot in Horseshoe Outlook; she was a clever woman, and fierce, fine company on nights around their campfire. John had been…sullen. But nice enough. They were both around your own age, but felt so tangled up in each other sometimes. You wondered, at times when you spent time with them, what that must be like. 

The sun was low on the horizon, and Horseshoe Outlook was painted in a soft orange glow as it sunk towards its rocky bed. The air was beginning to chill as the evening chased away the afternoon's heat, but the smell of grass and wild flowers was carried on the cool breeze, and it mingled with the scent of woodfire and the stew bubbling over it. There was a tense, electric energy circulating the camp that day; it had been growing worse since the small band of riders had set out at dawn the morning before, at Dutch's behest, to look for one of their members who was apparently being held by bounty hunters some place close by. Sean, Mary Beth had told you his name, an Irishman. The gang spoke little of the job that had seen him captured, but you gathered he had been gone for some weeks, and that Dutch had received word recently that he was being moved to a prison - this would be the men's last chance to get him back. Arthur had taken off with Charles and Javier on horseback, heavy rifles glinting as they bounced against leather saddles, and you had felt an uneasiness gripping your throat that you couldn't quite place watching them ride away. 

That disquiet had seemed to infect the rest of the camp over the following day, people somehow managing to look much busier than normal while getting very little done. You found yourself falling prey to the same restlessness, and had spent the morning removing each item from your medical bag and cleaning them thoroughly, checking for damage, repairing anything you could, before stowing them away once again. When that was done, all too soon, you had moved on to checking up on anyone and everyone milling about the camp - checking temperatures, reflexes, wounds down to the smallest scrape, anything to keep your mind from wandering. Too far, and you found yourself trying to chase down Arthur's form hunched against the back of his horse, heels pressed into the frantic creatures sides as wind whipped against them. 

You let the cool breeze pull at your skirt as you stood outside Marston's tent for a moment breathing, your eyes sliding their way to the break in the treeline that usually carried the men back to camp, unable to quell the heavy beat of your heart. There was something else on the breeze that tugged at you, something carried on the air. There was a yell from Bill somewhere ahead and it came to you suddenly - horses. Trotting hoofbeats could be heard over the shivering of the leaves overhead suddenly as loud to you as thunder, and Abigail followed you quickly from the tent as the returning men called out, appearing from the woods moments later. Javier rode in first, slim and quick and dark as a shadow. He was held in the middle by a pair of dirty, pale, and freckled arms. Sitting on the back of the horse was a young man, filthy and bloodied but face still split into a grin beneath a shock of red hair that clung to the grime on his skin. He waved, giving a greeting in a thick Irish accent. You heard Abigail beside you gasp happily. 

"Oh, they got him back!" And she rushed forward with some of the others to retrieve him from the back of Javier's horse. You paused for a moment, glancing expectantly at the treeline, waiting for him to come riding out of it. The dark of the woods remained conspicuously empty, even as Dutch came barrelling from his tent to scoop Sean into a rough embrace. You bounced on your toes, clenching and unclenching one clammy hand. You sighed at yourself as you strode forward, pushing gently past the group of people still yelling in celebration at the return of their companion to Javier, tethering his horse. You approached him shyly. 

"Its good to see you return well," You began as he glanced up at you. "Are either of you hurt?" He shook his head. 

"No, I'm fine. Sean is going to need some looking at, we found the kid hanging from his ankles," He laughed. "Can't imagine he's feeling all that well." You nodded absently. 

"Thanks, yes I'll be sure to do that," You turned, then paused, looking back at Javier quickly. "And Arthur? Is he…?" 

"Arthur and Charles should be following us soon," He replied. "Charles and I split up, Arthur stayed back. They shouldn’t be long behind us." Hot relief filled your breast where a tight anxiety had been moments before, and you felt your shoulders loosen and drop. You nodded in thanks and went to retrieve your bag, eager to examine your new patient. It was some time before you were permitted to see the slender youth, as by the time you returned to the throng of people with your things he had been whisked away into Dutch's tent. Pearson explained to you that Dutch would need to ask Sean about what the bounty hunters knew about their little gang. The implication hung heavy in the air; Dutch wanted to know what Sean had told them. Sometime the redhead was pushed laughing from Van der Linde's tent; the sun was near set entirely by the time you were called over to attend to him. 

"This here Is Rosana," Dutch introduced you. "Our new medical practitioner, as it were." He rested a hand on the small of your back as he brought you up to meet your charge. 

"A doctor, this slip of a girl?" Sean protested. "She's no older than me Dutch!" That was true, she noted as she examined his face more closely; he couldn’t have been much younger than her, yet he already seemed harder, older. A scruffy red shadow lined his jaw, and bright green eyes crinkled at the corner. His teeth were straight and white. You cocked an eyebrow at him. 

"I was hoping to whip you up something that would be able to help with the pain but," You pouted. "If you'd rather hold out to find a more experienced doctor…" Dutch laughed and slapped a hand against Sean's shoulder; the younger man winced. 

"Go with the woman Sean," He bellowed. "She's got to earn her keep around here same as you." 

"Alright, alright Dutch," Sean conceded. "Far be it from me to deny the advances of a fine young woman, even those medically inclined." And as you turned to lead him onwards he staggered behind you, chattering all the way. You led him to a tree stump by the drop-off, a hunk of forgotten log overlooking the valley that stretched out bellow the camp, the area you had chosen as your makeshift office in leu of a private tent in the camp. There the light of the noon and evening sun cascaded over the verdant grass and the sun kissed tawny skin of whichever of the camp's population had sought you out that day. Now the river sparkled in flashes of orange and pink as the sun moved across the horizon and the sky's blue was pulled away to expose a gradient of bright yellow to darkening purple. Beyond the rocky banks of the meandering body of water, trees lined the base of white stoned cliffs, and beyond that the land rose gently to great craggily peaks. You indicated for your young charge to take a seat on the sawed off stump that served as an examination table. Placing your bag carefully at your feet, you turned to him. 

"You'll have to remove your shirt," You told him. 

"Even fresh from captivity, the MacGuire charm never fails with the women," He said as he began to pull off his rough spun linen undershirt, dark with dirt and sweat. You stiffened as he revealed the flesh beneath, painted in a spectacular display of purples, blues, and greens that marked where fists had found his slim torso. Watercolor yellow splotches faded through a sickly rainbow of shades into oily, prune toned mounds where he was swollen and tender. The bruising covered his chest and gut, his arms, and crawled up onto his face; you fell to the task of examining him quickly, pressing your searching fingers gentle against his wounds. He was in better shape than he looked, and you were able to send him away with nothing more than a salve on his ankles for the rope burn, and a spoon of a bitter tincture to curb his pain. 

Loosened by the analgesic, and no doubt by the first freedom the young man had tasted in months, it was not long before Sean had climbed a top a dinner table and declared, wine bottle already waving energetically in one hand, that celebration of his return was in order. Karen raised her own bottle with a cry of support, and the gang needed no further urging. Each person fell to the task of merriment with ruthless efficiency; casks of beers and liquors were opened, bottles of wine unpacked, candles lit, and a fire kindled. Grimshaw took to their makeshift kitchen while Pearson fell to the cookfire, setting up a spit for a roast. Soon the yeasty smell of ale was mingled with the scents of smoke and meat and sweat as people congregated in groups of tight knit laughter, and as the sun began to dip behind the cliffs on the horizon, Javier pulled a guitar on his knee and began to strum. 

Charles rode into camp not long after, his dark hair matted with sweat and his clothes dark with the same but otherwise no worse for ware. Despite his long ride, he told the group of it as he pulled a bottle of dark beer from a table nearby, the revelry seemed to invigorate him. He hummed and tapped his feet as Javier began to play a folk tune that you did not recognize. 

You found yourself squeezed next to Abigail on a log beside the fire, clapping along with a tune as she bounced Jack merrily on her knee. She sang the words to the tune loudly as the others gathered around you, her pretty drawl stringing the syllables out in ways that were nothing short of charming. Karen sat to your other side, and she would occasionally hand you the bottle of red from which she sipped; the draught coated your tongue like liquorice, and warmed your cheeks. As you watched her, she stumbled, red faced, over the words she too was singing, giggle, and take another swig. Seeing you, she tipped the bottle your way. You hesitated. 

"Better not," You declined. "Better keep a clear head." 

"For what?" She laughed, taking another long gulp of the wine. "There's not work to be done this evening Rosanna. I think we've earned one night off from swindling folk." 

"Its not that," You shook your head. "I'm worried about Arthur-" Your words were cut off as the song ended and a great roar of appreciation rose from among Javier's audience; Karen turned away, cheering. You swallowed back the protest, not really wanting to verbalize your fear anyway. You laughed, and clapped, and talked of small things with the people gathered in the centre of the camp, but your mind was on the back of a panting horse, following a rugged shadow. Javier's and Charles' assurances did little to quell the thoughts that fought for you attention unbidden, thoughts of Arthur riding in bloodied and wounded, or worse, him not returning at all. You chided yourself as a vision of his eyes, empty, drifted across your vision. What did this man mean to you? He was just one more in the Van der Linde gang, one more person to care for and wound to stitch. You assured yourself of this, and yet somehow, you knew it wasn't true. He was…something else. He was more. 

"You okay?" Abigail asked suddenly, dropping a hand onto your knee. "You look out of sorts." You nodded. 

"Just a little tired," You replied, smiling. She grinned at you.

"Did I ever tell you, he saved my John?" You stared, not sure what she meant. "Arthur did, saved him from the wolves. Pulled him off a mountain and carried him home to me, foolish man that he is." You hesitated before replying. 

"He is unquestionably a fine man, but-"

"I see you sitting there all worried," She interrupted. "Mine isn't to say anything about it, I just thought you ought to know your fear is unfounded."

"Worried about Arthur? Not really, I mean," You stammered. "Obviously I concern myself with everyone's wellbeing, I'm a doctor." 

"Not to worry," Abbigail winked. "I don't mind blaming it on tender professionalism." Her attention was snapped away as Javier passed the guitar off to Lenny, who began to clumsily pick out a tune. You stood, suddenly very much in need of your own drink. You were pulling a bottle of amber whiskey from one of the open crates when the music stopped, Lenny's high fine voice turning to an awkward yelp as his fingers fell from the strings. 

"Arthur!" You whipped your head about, searching for him first in the firelight, then by his tent, eventually finding him approaching from the rows of hitched horses. His dark hair and broad shoulders slipped into the soft glow of their gathering as Dutch raised his hands in greeting, clutching him and offering blusterous words of thanks for rescuing Sean. Arthur waved these away quickly, and you saw his lips move in quiet reply. You could not hear, or else paid no attention, to what he was saying, so focused were you on ragged tear that had opened his fine, high left cheekbone. 

"Mr. Morgan," You shrieked, more shrilly than you had intended. He and several others turned to face you as you stormed into the centre of their loose circle. 

"Ms. Kenly?" He replied, his brows knitted in confusion, or else indignation. Before you could stop yourself your hand was on his chin, twisting his face to better light the blood that had dried along his jaw. 

"What is this?" You asked, fighting to keep hysteria from entering your voice. He pushed your hand down, gently.

"Ahh its nothing," He protested. "Just got a little bashed up trying to save MacGuire's sorry ass is all." There was laughter from the onlookers. 

"Don't lie, you missed me too much to leave me behind, Morgan," Sean called to him, raising his half empty bottle. "Grab a drink, we're celebrating my joyous return." 

"Joyous indeed," Cried Dutch, patting Arthur on the shoulder. "And fine work as always my boy. Now you're here the night can really begin in earnest." Lenny laughed loudly, bending over the guitar still nestled in his lap. 

"I need to take a look at that," You protested. Arthur waved a hand dismissively. 

"I told you, its nothing," he replied. 

"Oh just let her take a look at it you great oaf," Sean called. "She fixed me up right as rain, didn't you darling?" He asked, laughing. 

"You'd best get it over with," Hosea chuckled from beside them. "We've got a dedicated professional on our hands here Arthur." You frowned at Sean and Hosea in turn before turning pleading eyes up to the great, dark man that stood before you, his big hand still wrapped warm around your wrist. He sighed, and shrugged his shoulders. 

"Alright, come on then," He moaned, and motioned for you to lead. You led him from the congregation of outlaws and towards the tent you shared with Mary Beth, ducking inside quickly to grab your medical bag. He moved to follow. 

"Is your tent alright? I don't have a light in here," You stopped him with a hand pushed to his chest. He shrugged, and led you silently to his own tent, twisting on an oil lamp as you placed the heavy bag on his cot. He turned to you expectantly. 

"Could you sit?" You blushed. "I can't reach your face up there." He did, turning his face towards the light so that you could see it better. The cut was not particularly deep, nor long, but it was caked with the rest of his face in dried and peeling blood; his eye was swollen with a still purpling bruise, but otherwise his face was unmarred. The smell of his sweat and blood was acidic, hot. 

"How am I looking, Ms. Kenly?" He asked, not seeming to take the ordeal entirely seriously. You frowned in admonishment. 

"You'll need stitches," You replied, pouring a drab of the whiskey you had been carrying onto a clean cloth. He winced as you pressed it onto the wound, wiping away the blood and grime from riding. "How did you get this anyway? What happened to you?"

"Not much of a story there," He lamented. "I was slow, and got hit. Happens relatively often in this line of work." You laughed, despite yourself. Cleaning his face had done wonders, and your worry began to melt away as you saw how superficial his wounds were. 

"From what the rest have been telling me, you're the fastest draw 'round these parts Mr. Morgan," you teased. "And you're telling me some law man swung faster?" He winced against the cloth she held to his cheek. 

"Well I'm not as young and nimble as I used to be," He frowned. 

"You look plenty spry to me," You replied. His eyes darted up to meet yours, and you blushed at the implication of your words. "In my professional medical opinion, that is." He laughed. You rummaged in your heavy physicians sack, withdrawing a moment later a hook needle and a spool of catgut threading. 

"I'm going to have to stitch you up," You explained, threading the needle. "I can give you something for the pain, but I don't think I have anything strong enough to dull it completely." He eyed the needle. 

"Is that really necessary?" He asked. You nodded. "Alright, get it over with." He picked up the bottle of whiskey and took down several heavy, wet gulps, then pointed the bottle towards you. 

"You think that's wise, when I've got a needle to your face?" you laughed. He jerked it forward again, imploringly. 

"I need you to have steady hands, Ms. Kenly," He prodded. "So this scar doesn't throw off the symmetry of all my others." You rolled your eyes at the self depreciating jape and grabbed the bottle firmly by its neck; the whiskey was cheap, and it burned on the way down your throat. You tried and failed not to grimace at the taste. 

"Do trust me now, Morgan?" You asked, already stepping forward to where he sat on the edge of his cot. 

"That'll do," He grunted. You pressed the needle to the edge of the cut and pushed it in, trailing the cat gut behind. You had given stitched hundreds of times, thousands of times even, and the act came quickly and evenly to you now. Your stitches were neat and tight, and as you worked you were satisfied that this wound, at least, would not leave much of a scar to pair with his others. His face was marked less than his forearms, which were exposed as his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Thin lines broke the spiderweb thin wrinkles that had begun to crease the corners of his eyes, his mouth, and formed shallow trenches in his forehead. Deeper ones split the spots and freckles that marked his face, clustering across his nose and up his high cheeks; his skin was wheat brown from days under the hot sun, so dark that winkles, scars, and freckles all were camouflaged within its honeyed tones. 

Despite his lack of anaesthetic, he bore the pain of your needle well. Some men squirmed and griped beneath it, others paled and sweat, but Arthurs only reaction was the hardening of his jaw, a tightness in his blue eyes. The canvas of his tent was let down to keep the evening chill out, and blocked not only the sight of the revelry taking place by the fire, but also the sound of it, so only muffled singing could be heard beyond the ivory folds. You worked silently too, so that the only sounds between you were shallow breaths and the occasional pop of the oil lamp; your skirts were pressed into one of his thick thighs as you positioned for a better angle, and his heat and hardness was enough to drive you to distraction. You were thankful then for the swig of whiskey as it settled in your stomach, quelling the gentle quiver that you felt building in your fingers; you thought also, perhaps, its warmth could be blamed for the slow reddening of your cheeks as your flesh trailed against the gunslinger's. 

You finished you work with a triumphant snip of the thread, taking his chin with one of your fingers and twisting his face about to admire your work. 

"Are you quite satisfied, Ms. Kenly?" He asked, and his sudden voice in the quiet almost startled you. You dropped your hand quickly, wrapping it nervously around the handle of your bag as you began to repack your equipment. 

"Check for yourself Mr. Morgan," you replied. "I think I have done a fine enough job. I think it will heal nicely, barely a scar." You said the last proudly, confident in its truth. He pulled a tall, silver vanity mirror from the desk set beside his cot and examined your work, running his own fingers gently at the tender flesh just below the neat line of knitted flesh. 

"Some of the finest stitches I've ever had," He laughed. "Though I don't think that’s much a compliment to your work." 

"How you all have survived so long without someone to stitch you up properly is a mystery to me," You huffed. "Half the time you boys ride out you come back bloody." He shrugged at this, gently placing the mirror back on the table and angling it quickly up, so that it reflected nothing but the pale canvas of the tent's ceiling. He pushed himself slowly to his feet, and suddenly the tent was filled with him, so tall and broad with muscle that he blocked most of the light. He had seemed so much smaller sitting. 

"A few cuts and bruises never hurt none of us," He said. "But I'm glad to have you here anyway." You glanced up, catching his eyes. His focus entirely on you was overwhelming, the calm gaze catching you like a gust of wind, pulling you away from solid ground. You struggled to remain composed, but felt yourself being swept up; you wanted desperately to look away, terrified of what he might see staring into you like that. More terrified of having those eyes leave you.   
But they had to, and the slid away from your own like the sun behind the horizon as he brought up a hand to run it through his brown hair. 

"Ahh but look at me. I have you working late into the night, when there's celebrating to be done," He pulled another swig from the bottle of whiskey and then pushed it towards you in offering. You grinned, wrapping your hands around it like a child with a cup of hot tea. 

"So there is Mr. Morgan," You backed up out of his tent and into the chill of the night, ice cold against your hot skin, freezing against the blush spread across your cheeks and chest. "Will you show me how a proper gunslinger celebrates?" He laughed as he followed and nodded his agreement. 

"I will do my best, Ms. Kenly." 

The evening passed and quickly and joyfully as the day had been slow and harrying, the hours slipping by measured in songs and drinks and laughter and toasts. As the stars ran their weary trails across the sky, you grew tired of the heat of the fire, competing with the heat of the whiskey passing easily now across your lips, and you fell to a game of cards with Lenny, Karen and Arthur. The bottle you two had been sharing was soon emptied, and sometime between rounds he found another, presently it to you triumphantly. You laughed and hugged him, praising his resourcefulness. He looked startled, but you barely noticed. 

Your game was interrupted by Javier, who slammed a fist to your table; he produced a knife from a beaded hilt at his waist, and Arthur cried his approval as the blade began to slip quickly between the man's fingers. The rhythm grew faster, then faster again as he bounced the slim knife between his scarred knuckles. Its movement came abruptly to a halt as his grip loosened and the knife danced across the table. Javier swore, but Arthur hushed his groaning as he began to knock his own beat on the wood with the tip of the blade. Each puckered scar it left on the oak face was marked with a thud as the man's hand began to bounce with more urgency, the slip of silver becoming a blur as it was lifted and slammed down again faster than you could keep up with. The tapping lulled you gently into a trance, your eyes fixed on the movement of the knife and the hand that lay vulnerable beneath it, soft brown fingers spread in defiance and invitation, palm down flat against the humming wood. Each time Morgan seemed to slip, each time the flashing steel came a hair's breadth too close to his hardened skin you felt your breath catch for a moment in your throat. Your body seemed taught as a bowstring, aching for release as your shallow breathing fell into time with Arthur's movements, your fingernails dug into your palms as your hands furled into tight fists, and then-

"Oh!" You gasped as a gash of red appeared beneath the knife's tip. Arthur tossed the blade down to satisfied hoots and hollers from the others gathered around, entirely unbothered by the droplets of blood that were falling from his hand onto the wood below. Absently, he pressed the wound to his lips, pulling the red away where they parted; you watched intently.

And then Lenny had the knife, and the game began again. The young man faired no better than Arthur, and fillet turned to talking, turned to singing, and then to dancing as thin, fine notes of music began to float across the night air from Dutch's phonograph. You turned to see the him twirling Molly to the gentle tune, her red curls swinging like a velvet curtain across the breadth of her back. His arm slipped down to grip her waist as she stilled, and you watched as he pulled her carefully close to him. You heard her laugh above the music. You turned back to the table, empty now but for you and the half a bottle of whiskey; the wood beneath your fingers was cold. You pressed their tips gently into the grooves and divots marring its surface. 

The sudden silence of your little pocket of the night was familiar - except, this silence was not yours, nor was the night. A hand was on your shoulder, and through the fog of liquor you were surprised to see Arthur. 

"I'm not much of a dancer," He said. 

"Me neither," You admitted. He nodded, then held out his hand. 

"However, I promised to show you a real gunslinger celebration," He motioned behind him, to where Karen and Sean, as well as Abigail and John had joined Dutch and Molly in dance near the phonograph. You hesitated for a moment, and some muffled, quiet part of your brain cried out in protest. You know how this ends, it rebuked. You know what he is, and who you are. But that voice, usually so loud, was drowned out by the music that evening, and so you took his hand in your own, not slender for a woman's but slender held in his. He pulled you to your toes and across the soft grass to where the other couples shuffled in mellow rhythms together. His hands rested on your waist and yours on his shoulders, and you stared at the lines that formed on his brow as it pulled in concentration, his focus entirely on his feet below. 

His concern was not needed, as you fell into time together easily, and when his eyes met yours it was almost as if your body melted away beneath you. Stepping feet and shuffling skirts were gone, and all you were was his eyes caressing your face, his strong fingers pressing into the flesh on your waist, the heat of his chest only inches from yours, and the melody that carried your movements together in the dirt. He smelled of whiskey and tobacco, and beneath that sweat and blood; the combination was pleasant, familiar and strange, the suggestion of what was hidden in the man moving with you.

He grunted as you mis-stepped and stumbled awkwardly into the hard chord of his arm, and then chuckled low and quiet. His hands slipped deeper against your body until they were at the small of your back, and you were forced closer to him, letting your chest press against his own, hard as you were soft. 

"I didn't think I’d be better at this than you," He chuckled, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned in to whisper. You forced out a breathy half attempt at indignation. 

"I did warn you Mr. Morgan," You replied. "I'm not much of a lady." You tightened your arms so they were wrapped around his neck, pulling yourself so that you danced almost on your toes. It felt as if you could melt in the heat that smothered you, though you could not tell if it was from the whiskey, or the man who's body was urgently pressed against your own, or the flush that was spreading as you moved like a creeping fever across your flesh. Your heart raced at his nearness - but also, you realized, at the distance between you. You wanted him closer, you needed him more. The shirt stretched across his chest was an armor that kept you from him, your own dress an infinite amount of space created between your skins. Part of you ached to move your hands down slowly, to find the buttons strapped him in and pull them open, to press your hands against his chest and feel his muscle move against the palms of your hands. Did he feel it too? 

"You seem a fine enough lady to me," His voice barely carried despite his nearness, a growl more than anything. Your eyes snapped up from where they had been resting on the hollow of skin between his collarbones. Firelight competed with the full moonlight to see which could better illuminate the blue of his eyes as they poured into you; the stain of purple bruising swept across one of his fine, high cheeks. 

And you felt you could no longer help yourself as one of your hands crept slowly down from its place on the nape of his neck, dragging your fingertips across the soft skin of his throat, then across his exposed clavicles, before your palm came to rest against his beast, pressing so that you could feel his heart beat beneath it. Was it beating faster that normal? He shifted then too, and one of his hands began to move in slow, full circles against your back. It travelled achingly up past the small of your back, almost to your shoulder blades, and then fell in a firm arc back down, down - further down than where it had began. His palm worked slowly across the firm mound of your buttock, not quite squeezing, but moving firmly enough that you felt yourself squirm in response. He shifted his hips and then they were pressed against you too. You thought for a moment you felt him swell there, and your breath caught in your throat; you realized you were practically panting. You moved to your tiptoes then, and raised your face closer to his. At the same down, it seemed he moved his closer to yours, and his hot breath was passing against your lips, tantalizing, a frantic invitation. 

And then there was a yelp from somewhere behind you, and you stumbled backwards in surprise and the silence of the camp came crashing down around you. The music was gone, perhaps had been for some time, and the last straggling remnants of the Van der Linde gang were stumbling towards their tents. 

"Sorry," You mumbled, catching your breath. "I didn't notice…or, I didn't mean to keep you…" You trailed off, fists clutching at your skirts. He looked surprised as you, and was that? You thought you saw the faint red of blush creeping up his neck. 

"No, no," He stumbled. "I've been much too…I should be getting to bed. Thank you for the dance, Ms. Kenly." And before you could say anything more he had swept past you, and was pulling open the canvas of his tent. You stood alone on trodden dirt under the quickly paling darkness of the starlit sky, before turning to find you way to Mary Beth's tent, and a fitful, turning sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> My first try writing Red Dead fic! Not sure where this is headed yet but I'm too in love with Arthur Morgan to not give it a go.


End file.
